by Cat Porter
A smile broke over his face. “That’s no way to conduct business.”
“You think he cares about business ethics?”
Turo took one, two, three steps toward me and stopped. “I want your help to make his life miserable and cut down our competition in the process. Win for me. Plus, I figured you might enjoy the opportunity I’m offering to make him suffer. Win for you.”
I didn’t answer.
He whispered roughly, “Don’t forget, gorgeous, you owe me.”
“I’ll never forget. I know I do.”
“Good. I realize I’m asking you to rat, something that’s not done.”
“Same applies in your world, doesn’t it?”
“Hmm.” A grin broke over his carved lips.
“So you understand the position you’re putting me in.”
“They’re still looking for you,” he said, an eyebrow raised. “Was that what happened with Mr. Motormouth? He found you?”
“Yes.”
His eyes hardened. “I can protect you.”“Oh, I’ve heard that before. Don’t sugarcoat this shit. I’ll keep owing you and owing you, right? Until my usefulness runs out, and then—”
“I wouldn’t feed you to those dogs.” His voice was firm. “I like you, Ashley, and I’m sympathetic to your situation. I’d like to see you thrive far away from that trash. I really would. You say yes, and I’ll plant evidence of Mr. Mouth outside of Chicago. Way outside of Chicago, on the road leading back to Kansas.”
Had he saved a tattooed arm or Motor’s tattooed torso to plant somewhere? His bike? His knives?
“What would you do with information? Feed it to the feds or the cops?”
The lines on his forehead deepened for just a moment. “No feeding any of it to anybody. This will be all mine. I don’t even want anyone to know this information is coming from me. Which means no one will ever know it’s coming from you.”
I held his steady gaze.
Was I really considering this?
This was crazy. This was a road to perdition. Eventually. But right now, I couldn’t see a way out of it. This was everything Finger had warned me about. Getting too close, owing and being obligated. I’d put myself in a position of weakness and vulnerability, hadn’t I?
Med had kidnapped me, raped me, kept me locked in dark closets, terrorized me, and petted me like his favorite kitty all at the same time. I’d done everything he’d asked me and made me do, and then in one night all that had changed. And it had been a brutal change. I had no doubt that if Finger hadn’t come for me when he had, I’d be nothing but body parts all over Kansas right now.
“Only between you and me,” Turo said.
Turo was a player in a powerful crime syndicate. Maybe he really could keep the wild wolves at bay for me once and for all, and there would be no more hiding, no more wondering, no more wandering. At least for a little while. It would be a good jump start.
I swallowed hard, squashing the sour seeping up my throat back down. “Only between you and me. No go betweens or other representatives from your organization. Not even a bodyguard. And definitely no Ciara. No one else can know. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
I believed him.
He removed his trench coat and swept it over a chair in a precise fold. Burberry said the inside lining. He took off his lean suit jacket and folded that over as well. Letting out a sigh, Turo sat down on my small sofa, an incongruous vision in starched lines and immaculate black and white tailoring in contrast to the woven purple and red pillows he leaned against on the turquoise sofa.
“I’ve got an hour to kill.” His eyes dove to my bare legs and his jaw clenched. “Get yourself dressed, make us coffee,” he stroked the cushion next to where he sat on the sofa, “and come entertain me with tales of your sordid underworld.”
27
“I can’t wait to see you. Jesus, it’s been so fucking long,” Finger’s scratched and husky voice leapt at me through the telephone, making my pulse speed.
“I know, baby. I’m so excited.” I wouldn’t ask him where he was in relation to Chicago. He wouldn’t have told me anyhow. He was in the middle of club business, hooking through Chicago for two days to see me before heading back to Nebraska. “I can’t wait to kiss you tomorrow.”
“Oh, and that’s not all, babe.” He let out a laugh. “Love you.”
My heart squeezed. “Love you too.”
Finally.
After not hearing from him for so long, he was finally on his way, and I’d be seeing him in a matter of hours. I would tell him everything then. About Motormouth, about Turo.
About our baby.
I’d taken the day off from work, packed up my new wine-colored satchel bag, baked a small pan of brownies and packed them in a plastic container tied with silver ribbon. I couldn’t wait to give him the brownies and see his reaction. See if he remembered my silly dream for our one day together future: “I’m baking brownies, and you’re teaching our kid to ride a bicycle out in the yard.” Then I’d tell him about the baby.
I waited in my apartment for his call, dressed and ready to rock and roll from six in the morning.
It was twelve noon now.
Nothing.
Four in the afternoon.
Still nothing.
Nine at night.
Not a word.
I hadn’t eaten all day. My head swam.
I stayed glued to my sofa, my phone at my side.
I clicked a lamp on.
Ten thirty-five pm.
I closed my eyes.
The phone rang. I fumbled with it as if I’d never handled a cell phone before. “Yes? Hello?”
“Ash, it’s me.”
My chest caved. “Oh. Hey, Tania.”
“What are you doing? Come meet me at Arena!” she practically shouted over loud music and a noisy crowd. She was at a bar. Her latest boyfriend loved sports bars.
“What?”
“Come out. I need girl power, and I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m waiting for someone.”
“Oh. Oh! Good! Sorry. I’ll talk to you whenever. Call me, okay? Have fun!”
Fun. I tugged my hands through my hair, nausea swirled in my gut. Something had to be wrong. Something.
I got up and filled a tall glass with water, gulping in one long swallow. I had to wait. Just sit tight and wait. It wasn’t the first time he’d been delayed or a no show, and it wouldn’t be the last. I grabbed the last half of a chocolate bar I’d stashed in my small fridge, kicked off my shoes, and nestled into the corner of my sofa, flipping channels on the remote control.
Dumbass high school comedy. News. Beer commercial. “Mad About You” rerun. Car commercial. Toni Braxton music video. Epilator infomercial.
News it is. At least I’d catch the weather for tonight and tomorrow. Be prepared.
I bit into the last piece of chocolate. Tasteless, too sweet.
The cops had arrested a man who’d broken into several apartments in the same neighborhood. The reporter’s face morphed into a rigid frown. “In related news, the skeletal remains found earlier this month outside of DeKalb have been formally identified by investigators as those of Rose Shohito.”
I froze.
A photograph of a young Rose appeared on the screen stamped with her name in big block letters.
“At the time of her disappearance the victim was an exotic dancer and a groupie of the notorious Smoking Guns Motorcycle Club. Ms. Shohito also had a five year old son. After her disappearance, the boy’s care was taken over by the state, his name changed for his protection. The cause of Ms. Shohito’s death appears to be repeated blows to the skull...”
Rose, Rose, what did they do to you?
Maybe
she’d tried to escape, to get back to her son, to Motor, and they’d caught her and…
The room tilted, and I gripped my knees to steady myself.
An image of Rose flashed before my eyes. Her squealing laughter, her arm around my shoulders as we got beers at that heavy metal concert in Florida on a winter run.
The reporter talked investigation, bone fragments, a ditch.
Motor’s haunted voice came back to me. “He used her as a chip. He lost her.”
Rose had gotten traded like a baseball card between kids, like a fur pelt between an Indian and a frontiersman. And her boy? Abandoned, given away, name changed. His mother erased.
Erased.
A wail escaped my throat. “Rosie...”
Lost forever.
Her boy would never know her or know of her. And there was no one to tell him either. Rose’s life had been brutally snuffed out for no reason, and her memory forgotten except by me and Motormouth.
And now I’d snuffed him out.
I buried my face in my lap, my hands over the back of my head. “NO!” I yelled.
She was a good friend, a sweet mom, a happy spirit. But that’s not what would remain of Rose. After listening to that news report, people would only think: “She got what she deserved for being so loose, so reckless and irresponsible. What the hell did she expect?”
“...Partly cloudy with a slight possibility of showers late in the afternoon,” blared the television. “That’ll do it for me. Jane, back to you!”
“Thanks, Kevin. Next up, Roger Emery with tonight’s sports scores…”
Yes, forgotten.
Numb, I slid onto the floor.
Thunder. Banging.
“Ash? Ash? Open up, it’s me.”
I popped up from the floor, my neck protesting, my shoulder sore from where I’d fallen asleep on it.
“Ashley!”
I shut off the television. What time was it?
Hard knocking.
My limbs were heavy and not cooperating. I pushed up from the floor, somehow making it to the door. “Tania?”
“Open up already!”
I unlocked the door and swung it open. “What’s going on?”
She wore a baseball cap over her dark hair, men’s pajama pants stuffed in tall rain boots and a University of Chicago hoodie with an oversized Cubs windbreaker. She closed the door behind me. Her face was pale, she was tired. “Did you hear from Finger last night?”
“No, nothing. Why?”
“He called me this morning.”
“What?”
“About half an hour ago. I came right over—”
“What are you talking about. Are you sure? Are you—”
She grabbed my arms tightly, facing me. “Listen to me,” her voice was even, firm. “Finger called me. From jail.”
My heart snagged on barbed wire. “What?”
“He got arrested yesterday just outside of town.”
My mind blanked.
She threw off the baseball cap and the windbreaker. “Finger got arrested last night and he’s in jail. He got a hold of a cell phone from some other inmate and called me to tell me to let you know. It was a thirty-second call at best. He didn’t use my name, just started talking at me.”
“Why? What did he—”
“They got him for possession of bomb making material related to this explosion in Springfield the day before. Two related felonies, maybe more charges. There’s no bail. He’s looking at time. Seven years, he said, something like that.”
Arrested.
The FBI must be all over Finger right this very moment like a swarm of flies on picnic food, trying to get info out of him. I was sure the Flames of Hell had a lawyer on retainer for situations like this, but who knew if he’d be able to get Finger out? Was there enough evidence to make a conviction stick? And if so, for how long?
I wouldn’t be able to visit him. He’d be watched by his club and others, and I wouldn’t be able to see him, talk to him. I wouldn’t even trust letters. Would he even be safe in jail? Would rival clubs or gangs or whoever be on his tail?
“The last thing he said was, “Remember this—leave no clues behind, Sunshine. I’ve got my hair up in a ponytail for the ride.’”
My stomach cramped, my chest caved in.
“I’m guessing you know what that means?” Tania asked.
The room swerved out from under me. Tania was a blur.
Goodbye, baby. Goodbye.
I wouldn’t be seeing Finger today or any other day. I wouldn’t be able to tell him about killing Motormouth, about Scrib suspecting he’d been the one to have gotten me out, about Turo.
About our baby.
Our baby.
“Honey, I’m sorry—” Tania reached out toward me.
I shrank away from her. “No!”
I was on my own. Alone. Arctic winds blew loud and fierce around me and the landscape offered no comforts whatsoever. Bleak, barren.
People like me and Finger had plenty of dreams, but mostly we kept our heads down, out of those pretty clouds, and we lived by the skin of our teeth.
The ache building in my heart cracked wide open and multiplied into a thousand aches like fractures rupturing over an ice covered lake, the noise deafening.
Doom.
Tears choked me. I gave in and swirled in the flood of salty water.
Tears were supposed to be cathartic, cleansing, but not mine. My tears were flammable gasoline.
I would have to light the match and set it all on fire.
Tania busied herself in my tiny strip of a kitchen making us tea. I couldn’t listen to her stream of words. I was too busy listening to my own.
One thought overtook me.
If Grace could do it, Grace the widow, Grace the childless mother with the torn body and ripped soul, why couldn’t I?
There would be no better solutions, no other choices. I had gotten myself into an impossible situation once again, but this time I had to get myself out. Finger had given me the gift of freedom. He’d made me a promise that he’d come back for me, and he had. Tania had put herself on the line to help us, and she did. I was free to live in that sunshine they both had showed me. I was free to love him and be loved in return.
I just couldn’t be with him.
What had Boner said? “She’s in the pit now. I know what that’s like, and I gotta pull her out.” I’d been in several pits already, and right now there was no one who could pull me out—no Grandma, not Tania, not Finger. Hell knew where he’d end up to do his time and for how long, and there could be no contact. And Tania needed to stay clean and clear of it all.
This time, I couldn’t cling to hopes, waiting for an optimal opportunity. I had to protect our baby which was growing inside me every day, and do it now. I had to protect my man. Being together could get us all killed or worse.
I saw the choice I had to make as clear as a toll booth up ahead on the highway. Payment had to be made in order to pass, and there wasn’t much time to scrounge the coins together.
I have to keep my family safe.
That drumbeat of war boomed in my head. Unmistakeable, steady, loud.
I’d gotten comfortable and that had been a mistake. I knew better, but I’d been enjoying myself. I’d enjoyed believing.
I’d had a brush with Scrib. Motormouth had found me. Somewhere down the line, some other Gun would find me, take me back, and I’d be punished in some horrible way for the glory of their honor, their pride, or just for the hell of it.
I had started clinging to hopes this past year, nurturing them, but there could be no more of that. Hopes were like wisps of glittery diaphanous fabric—dreamy, fanciful. Impractical. Nothing good ever lasted for me, that had been proven true over and over.
I had to make a move.
“Tea and Oreos, breakfast of champions.” Tania set a tray of steaming mugs and cookies on napkins in front of me on the coffee table.
I would stay away from Tania to keep her safe. I had to. She deserved only the best. I had to leave Chicago, and leave no clues behind.
I would perfect that principle this time. That was now my truth, my religion, my creed.
Steam rose from the surface of the tea, and my mother’s words came back to me: “Some of us have to live in the real world.”
Oh, I did live in the real world. I knew that for me to grab at any happiness, there would always be something to hide, someone to kill, someone to pay off, someone to owe.
And now, I had something precious they could take from me and destroy, but I wouldn’t let them.
I would take it away myself first.
28
“Out in four if you behave,” the club lawyer said. “Maybe even three, but I can’t promise anything.”
My chained hands curled into tight fists on the table.
I’d gotten caught on my way to Chicago. This job in Springfield, Illinois had come in at the last minute from National. I got it done, and the next day I headed to Chicago. In a little over twenty minutes I would’ve been in the city limits, and in my woman’s arms.
Instead I’d landed in a jail cell.
He leaned in closer to me, his fingers pressing down over his navy blue tie. “Your club needs you in jail. You’re agreeing to a deal, and they’re going to send you to the state pen. Usually this sort of thing gets tagged for the Feds and they swoop in and send you boys to some facility way across the country just for the hell of it. That won’t happen here. So you do your time, and you’ll be out in a few years.”
“What’s the hook?”
Across the table, he passed me two black and white photos of two different men.
“Last year, the President and Vice President of the Silver Crows were incarcerated in northern Illinois...”
The rest was a fucking laundry list of what I needed to do for the greatness of the Flames.
“Who? Tell me who.”
“Who?” The lawyer squinted, slanting his head as if he’d had trouble deciphering my use of the English language.
